I pray to be the tool which to your hand
   Long use has shaped and moulded till it be
   Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly,
You take it for its service.  I demand
To be forgotten in the woven strand
   Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry
   Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie
A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band.
   I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams,
The railing to the stairway of the clouds,
   To guard your steps securely up, where streams
A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds
   Of pointed stars.  Remember not whereby
   You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.